A man in a red headband was leaning out over the bog. “See what he’s doing? He takes the packed vastules off the conveyor and plants them in the pit. In about four months or so they’ll be removed and checked to see what we’ve gotten.”
The man did one creature at a time, reaching for it, then feeling around in the bog as though searching for the proper spot. Occasionally he leaned out far across the pit, holding onto a metal strap on a rod above. Adrian said, “They have to be spaced properly, or they won’t grow anything. And look what he’s wearing.”
Io looked. She was puzzled. “A headband, a shirt—”
“No, on his hand. The one that goes into the bog. He’s wearing a Curosa glove.”
Io peered closer. It was true, on his right hand there was a black, shiny glove that ended at his wrist—no, it went back to mid-forearm— “It’s changed its length!”
“One of the biological legacies of the Curosa. Most people only see the blood-sharing in church, but we really depend on any number of inheritances from our teachers.”
“May their mission forever continue,” said Iolanthe automatically.
“Indeed. You’ll note the glove is alive, made up of thousands of tiny parasites. They consume a very small amount of the wearer’s blood, and in return they function as a flexible, fully sealed barrier. Otherwise, the material in the bog would damage him.” They watched the man swing back from the strap, choose another vastule, and turn again to the pit. “See, the glove starts to lengthen as he puts his hand inside. I’m told they’re highly sensitive, and allow for very fine work.”
Will Stockton squatted down beside them. Forgetting he was only there to observe, he said, “Is it true the vastules can duplicate any molecular structure?”
Adrian glanced at him, the surprise plain on his face. “You’re very well-informed, Sergeant.”
“I read a lot,” said Will defensively.
“And why not? They can duplicate any we’ve tried so far, but then, we haven’t tried that many, being limited by reasons of practicality. Gems happen to be the most efficient and lucrative for the size. By the way, we’ve got a real pearlfarm a few miles away—the old-fashioned kind, with oysters. That’s why you won’t see us wasting any effort on pearls in here—”
As he was speaking, the man planting the vastules fell to his knees suddenly. Adrian grabbed hold of his arms to keep him from tumbling into the bog, then quickly pulled off his shirt as a small crowd of workers gathered. The man’s chest was flushed an angry pink, ringed with tiny rashes. Adrian held him gently, turning him to examine his back, where more rashes showed. The supervisor arrived then, breathing heavily from his sprint across the room.
“Sorry—” began the planter, from his vantage point on the floor.
“Gemsickness,” Adrian cut in, looking at Roger. “An advanced case. You’d better get him home.”
“No!” The man on the floor stirred. “Don’t send me home. I’ve got a perfect record.”
“Shut up, Nickel,” said Roger. “It’s gone too far for me to do anything. The Protector says you’ve got to go home.”
“I can’t afford to go home—”
“To hell with your perfect record, man,” said Adrian. “You need at least a week off. Another hour, and you’d have fainted into the damned pit, you idiot. What were you thinking? You should have skipped a day as soon as the symptoms showed.”
The man twisted uncomfortably and sent a despairing glance toward Roger. The supervisor knelt. “Things have changed since you were down here, Adrian.”
Adrian sat back on his heels, his voice suddenly cold. “Changed how?”
“No paid time off for gemsickness. Everything is piecework. If you don’t do it, you don’t get any money.”
Roger and Adrian looked at each other. Roger said, “If you recall, there was a time a couple of years ago when things in the City were, shall we say, confused? The council wanted to boost output. We had no one on hand to explain the facts of life to them. You were busy at the time, Adrian.”
“A policy such as you describe would lower output in the long run.”
“You know that and I know that, but the rules are still in effect.”
The gem planter was being helped to his feet and led away. Adrian stood up and stepped back from the pit. “You should have sent me a petition of notice.”
Roger’s face was blank. “I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from us.”
Adrian’s jaw clenched noticeably, but he did not reply. Prudence Favvi spoke up. “Let’s finish the tour, Adrian.”
“By all means,” he said. “The tour.”
Roger’s smile was ever so slightly forced. “I think it’s time for the Protector’s wife to choose her good-luck gift.”
Io was unhappy to note everyone turning to her. “What is it I must do?” she asked quietly.
Adrian was staring down at the pit. “You choose a vastule from a ripe bog and we open it. If there’s a gem inside, it’s considered a good omen. If there isn’t, we don’t mention the incident to anyone.”
“Ah,” said Iolanthe.
“The pit at the end is ready for harvesting,” said Roger. They proceeded to it. Iolanthe stood on the edge, looking distrustfully down at the liquidy brown muck and the shadows of vastules within. Adrian said, “The ones in the center are more likely to have formed something.”
“True,” said Roger. “Although one can never tell.” The stench was repulsive. But Io was determined that, if they didn’t come out of this with a good-luck stone, it wouldn’t be for her lack of trying. She reached for the metal strap overhead and leaned out slightly, pointing toward a shadow in the center. “I think—”
The strap pulled off its track, releasing itself completely. She shrieked in panic, flailed, and tumbled over into the bog, which accepted her at once with an undertow like the suck of a giant carnivore. The strap was still
